


may you never grow into his clothes

by waspfactor



Category: Assassination Classroom
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:53:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28223469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waspfactor/pseuds/waspfactor
Summary: you're almost fifteen when you bury your father
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	may you never grow into his clothes

**Author's Note:**

> i am pained by the revelation that gakuhou's last thoughts before his suicide attempt didn't include gakushuu. i wrote this with tears i am in PAIN
> 
> i wrote this while listening to radiohead cos it was the only thing angsty enough to get me through this- [exit music (for a film)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bf01riuiJWA)

The problem with learning how to pick up the pieces is that you’re expected to already know the instruction manual. You’re used to being ahead of the learning curve but not like this. You never imagined this.

You are Gakushuu Asano, boy wonder and aged fourteen. You’re 5’7” and growing still, with hair that illuminates even the darkest rooms and eyes that crinkle upwards when you (rarely) smile. You are, for all your wisdom and intelligence, but a child who lives with your father, the principal of the school you attend. He is your only family and vice versa.

You are almost fifteen when you bury your father. It’s a clear, cool day with the occasional breeze that chills you to your core. You’re wearing your school uniform, sans the armband. What was once a sign of privilege, of your leadership is now an omen, a painful reminder of what was and what will never be again.

All in attendance, students, teachers, business partners, former students, keep dry eyes. It’s just not that sort of funeral. Your father wasn’t the sort of man who deserved to be wept over. It’s not what he would’ve wanted now anyways.

You’re asked to read out your eulogy, as your father’s only surviving family member, the rest lay in cold, forgotten graves. You left the script at home, those practiced words not appropriate for this. You were angry then but now you are sad.

Your voice cracks as you take centre stage. This is a position you’re used to, all eyes on you but this is unfamiliar. “My father was a man whose actions greatly influenced the lives around him.” And it’s stupid and idiotic to say such an obvious statement but you cannot bring yourself to call him good or bad, no matter how much you wish you could. Your father was a man who affected a lot of people with what he did and that’s the nicest way of putting it. You have to take grounding breaths, as to remind yourself of where you are, who you’re burying, why you’re burying him.

You shut down, no words seemingly appropriate. What can you say, it’s no secret that you had a dysfunctional relationship with your father and while you might have been holding out hope of remedying this, it is now gone. This is your closure, burying the only family you ever had at age _fifteen._ No answers, no explanations. This is your cross to carry now.

You briefly understand why your father kept that basketball in his office, up high away from prying hands. The gold leaf pin lies heavy in your pocket. You wonder what you will do with it.

The funeral ends and the coffin is lowered. This is the last time you’ll see him. You’re rooted to the spot, despite the numerous attempts from people trying to pull you away from it. You can’t. This is the last time you’ll see him; you can’t run away now.

The forecast said no rain would fall and yet you find droplets running down your face. They’re hot and sticky to touch and you realise they’re not raindrops at all. You can’t help the sob that escapes you.

The ground is wet because now it really is raining. You didn’t bring an umbrella, so you let yourself soak away in it. Perhaps if you wait outside long enough, you will dissolve away into the earth, join your father in the next life.

You’re on your knees as you scream and bawl, hitting the muddy dirt beneath you with shaking fists. This isn’t what you wanted, not like this, not now. There was still so much left to do, to say and now it is all gone because your father couldn’t lose. It’s fitting. The birth of his philosophy came about with a suicide and now it ends with one too. You want to claw your throat out at the realisation and wish that your brain would take a day off.

He never left a note. You don’t want to know what his last words were. 

At some point, a man with cold, black eyes stands over you, holds his umbrella over your drenched, shaking frame. You don’t look up at him because then you really might break down completely.

Through the tears and hitched breathing, you manage out, “Do you think he thought about me?”

The silence that follows is an answer in its own way and your heart shatters further.

It’s such a terrible day for rain.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://wasp-factor.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/waspfactor) :((
> 
> real angst hours am i right or am i right
> 
> brb im gonna go scream into the void


End file.
